


Vibrissae

by Not_You



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Injury, Demons, Drug Use, Facial Hair, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Xenophilia, how are things arranged inside ocelot, how many tongues does ocelot have, revolver ocelot is a good bro, science does not know, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: In which Kaz learns the Terrible Truth about Ocelot's moustache.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Theories](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/413535) by SoulfulQuail. 



When Ocelot first starts growing that stupid mustache, Kaz can barely keep a straight face, talking to him. It’s so fair and wispy that Kaz isn’t sure if it reminds him more of a nonagenarian’s pubes or a boy’s first attempt to cultivate facial hair, but either way it’s pathetic. What’s worse is how goddamn proud of it he seems. The poor deluded bastard seems to really think it suits him, and sometimes Kaz feels like he’s going to give himself some kind of internal rupture trying not to laugh.

Catching Ocelot actually brushing the goddamn thing, with a dainty little brush he probably found at Hopalong Cassidy’s estate sale, is the moment that Kaz has to let it out or die, and he laughs until there are tears running down his face first at that fruity little brush, made all the more ridiculous by being totally unnecessary for the tiny wisps that are present, and then at the irritated catnoise Ocelot makes. He has to lean against the wall, wheezing helplessly.

“Are you quite done?” Ocelot asks, and it only sends Kaz into further convulsions.

At least once the mustache is grown it’s just a rodeo-flavored fashion disaster. It doesn’t exactly suit Ocelot, but it isn’t actively hilarious anymore. He’s still way too proud of it, though, and that’s why, after a rough week of putting up with the homo cowboy bastard, Kaz gets a wonderful, awful idea.

There’s a lot that Kaz doesn’t know about Ocelot, and probably a lot that no one knows about Ocelot, but after four years of working with the bastard, Kaz has a feeling that he knows more than most. He’s definitely one of the few people on earth who could pull a stupid prank like this and live to tell the tale. He has chosen his moment carefully, catching Ocelot at the end of a long shift on the comms, drowsing over a cup of coffee. Somehow he never gets any on his stupid mustache, and Kaz ponders that point as he creeps closer, scissors in hand.

It all happens very quickly. One snip and Ocelot is on his feet and making a sound Kaz has never heard out of him, not when he took all those bullet ant stings in Nicaragua (from not goddamn listening to Kaz, let the record show,) not that time Kaz got coked up enough to think that fucking the weird bastard was a good idea and Ocelot had turned out to actually yowl like a cat in heat. It’s some kind of rattling shriek that almost sounds like many voices in unison. Shit, Ocelot is bleeding, standing there with one hand clapped to his pale face, eyes huge.

“What have you done?” Ocelot wails, and Kaz takes a few quick steps back, mind racing as he calculates the probability that he fucked up and cut something important, that Ocelot is fucking with him, or that Ocelot is just that vain. The probability of Ocelot fucking with him is usually eighty-five percent or higher, but he would have to have had some kind of stage blood capsule on hand, unless Kaz really _did_ cut him.

“Ocelot, what the fuck? These scissors aren’t that fucking sharp! Did I get your lip?”

“No,” Ocelot growls, “no, you _asshole_ , you didn’t. Stand down!” That last is directed to the security personnel who have come charging up to see what all the unearthly shrieking was about. He tells them he hurt himself thrashing around and trying to wake up from a nightmare. “Fortunately,” he concludes, “Commander Miller was here to keep it from being any worse.” He keeps his hand to his face the whole time, and after everyone salutes and shuffles off, Kaz sees why. When Ocelot lowers his hand, the first thing Kaz sees is a wide streak of blood, much more than he realized, and he has a moment of feeling like a complete piece of shit before he gets a better look at Ocelot’s lip. It’s fine. Kaz only cut what he intended to cut.

“...Where the hell is the blood coming from?” Kaz can feel himself going red with wrathful embarrassment. To think that he was actually getting worried about the kind of person who fucking _carries stage blood_ just to make other people think they’re losing their minds.

“From my fucking whiskers, Miller!” Ocelot snaps, and starts cursing in Russian and searching on the floor. Kaz is sputtering something about that being the stupidest lie he has ever heard when Ocelot comes up with the severed end of his mustache. The place where it’s cut is soaked in blood.

“Ocelot, tell me what the hell is going on and tell me right now,” Kaz growls.

“What’s going on, Miller, is that I finally grew my whiskers, and you had to go and make me lopsided!” He stands up, wobbling a little. “Help me back to my quarters. It’s the least you can do.”

“Ocelot, what the fuck--”

“I’ll tell you when we get there, Miller, and not before.”


	2. Chapter 2

At least Ocelot is light, if Kaz has to human crutch him all the way back to his room. The few personal effects are mostly cowboy shit, of course. Kaz helps Ocelot sit on his bed, feeling provisionally guilty. If this isn’t some kind of long con, he drew blood when he only wanted to wound Ocelot’s vanity.

Ocelot points Kaz toward his enormous and comprehensive torturer-spy-psycho first aid kit, and Kaz tilts that weird, pointy face toward the light and swabs the blood away. Ocelot’s skin is completely intact, and even as Kaz watches, fresh blood oozes up from the cut ends of the hairs themselves.

“What the everlasting bugfuck,” Kaz breathes after an endless moment, still staring.

“I actually thought you knew,” Ocelot says.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m looking at right now, Ocelot.”

Ocelot sighs. “Really? With that ward on your desk and all the youkai of Japan?”

“That was a _joke!_ It says ‘gay cat begone!’” He pauses for a moment. “And are we seriously assuming that I know anything about demons because I’m Asian, because that is not how that works,” he adds, and then buries a hand in his hair in consternation. “Oh Christ are you legitimately some kind of demon? That makes everything make so much more sense.”

“I think the category of youkai is more fitting,” Ocelot says, sounding both half-drunk and extremely prissy.

“Demon works just fine, because whatever you are, you’re up to no good. Hold still.” He applies some pressure to the bleeding, unable to help staring at the intact side of Ocelot’s moustache. “So. Now that I know, how much have I fucked you up?”

“Substantially,” Ocelot says. “My whiskers affect balance, hand-eye coordination, and my ability to smell souls.”

“God, you’re creepy,” Kaz says. “I guess we’re telling everyone you’re sick?” He pauses, feeling the blood drain from his face. “They do grow back, right?”

“They do,” Ocelot says. “Slowly.”

Kaz sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay.” He switches off Ocelot’s lamp and pushes his glasses up on his forehead. “We’ll figure this out, but first you have to tell me everything. Well, not your secret name or whatever, but I don’t want to blunder into hurting you again.”

“Thank you,” Ocelot says, and it sounds oddly sincere.

“You are such an asshole,” Kaz grumbles, and sits on the bed beside him.

Ocelot doesn’t say anything for a long time, but at last he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the severed whiskers. They’re clumped together in one solid piece, and after a moment of gazing mournfully down at it, Ocelot puts it into his mouth like some kind of normal food item. It crunches horribly when he chews it, and Kaz cringes, staring at Ocelot in horror.

“Waste not, want not,” Ocelot says. “It helps them grow back.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“At least eight weeks to regain all the lost length, but I should be compensating well enough in a week. You only severed the tip, because they’re like a cat’s claws, retracted when relaxed.” 

He demonstrates, his face tensing slightly in a way Kaz has never seen on anyone else in his life as that godawful moustache extends by a good three inches, each individual hair rising and floating of its own hideous volition. The intact side moves freely, like the cilia of some undersea creature, while the cut side just holds itself up, the tiny red pinpoints of the cut ends looking painful and raw.

“Okay,” Kaz says, and he’s proud of how normal he sounds. “And I am sorry. You’re an obnoxious bastard, but I just wanted to irritate you.”

“I know,” Ocelot says, much more kindly than Kaz is expecting.

Kaz tries to clean up his own messes, so he disinfects the cut ends and carefully bandages them together. With the hairs clumped like this, it’s almost like taking care of a finger injury, which is nothing Kaz hasn’t done.

Ocelot says the room spins around him when he tries to lie down, but sitting up seems to take a lot of effort. At last, Kaz folds one of the pillows in half and stacks the other on it to prop Ocelot up a little, and that seems to help. Ocelot closes his eyes and just breathes for a while, but it isn’t long before Kaz can tell that the severed whiskers hurt a lot more than Ocelot is letting on.

“You sure you don’t have something for that?” Kaz asks, after Ocelot lets out a tiny noise of agony that would go right to Kaz’s heart if he could be sure it wasn’t calculated.

“Drug resistance training, remember?”

“I remember that you don’t resist blow very hard,” Kaz says, and starts digging through the first aid kit. “You must have some kind of illegal horse tranquilizer or something to take the edge off—and what are these, Uncle Ocelot?”

Ocelot rolls his eyes, but holds out a hand. Kaz counts four of the enormous capsules he just found in an unmarked vial into Ocelot’s palm before he pulls his hand back and swallows the pills dry. Kaz hands him some water to at least chase them with, and as Ocelot does his sloppy best to drink, Kaz sees how he never gets coffee on his moustache. Water slops from the corners of Ocelot’s mouth, and on the intact side, his whiskers absorb every drop. Apparently the other side doesn’t pick up any of it, because Ocelot makes an irritated cat noise and scrubs at it with the back of one hand. Kaz takes the glass from the other, and sets it out of the way.

Kaz ends up spending the night in Ocelot’s quarters and not even in a good-coke-bad-ideas kind of way. The man can’t even get his own boots off, and after Kaz has pried them loose, marveled at Ocelot’s freakish clawed demon finger-toes, made sure the bedding is in reasonable order, helped Ocelot in his fretful struggles out of his shirt, fetched a basin in case he has to throw up at any point, refilled the water glass, mopped up half the contents of the water glass when Ocelot spilled it, and given Ocelot two more of the giant capsules, it’s late enough for him to just crawl in beside the bastard and catch what sleep he can.


	3. Chapter 3

Kaz snaps awake in the morning, his skin crawling in a way he doesn’t understand until he remembers where he is and that Ocelot is a literal monster, not just the regular human kind. He looks like shit, still half propped up and covered in clammy sweat. He usually has bags under his eyes, but today they look bruised, and there’s something really pitiful about his amputated whiskers, now that Kaz knows what they are. Kaz slides out of bed, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his neck before grabbing his clothes. 

As he moves, Kaz is expecting Ocelot to turn out to have been awake all along, and it’s a little unnerving to get his shirt, jacket, and cravat on and find Ocelot still out. Kaz gazes down at that slack, pallid face and its gleam of cold sweat, and sighs.

“Well,” he says, “this is all my fault.”

With the most important aspect of the situation verbalized, Kaz hauls out Ocelot’s laundry and his garbage, since they both need it and Ocelot clearly won’t be up to it for it for a long time. There isn’t much dust or clutter, and Kaz wonders which image is worse, Ocelot whisking a feather duster around, or Ocelot using actual demonic magic to get rid of the stuff. Of course, if it’s the latter, it’s really obnoxious of him not to use it to help cut the cleaning budget, but if one word describes Ocelot…

Well, okay, today another good word for him is ‘clammy.’ Since the basin remains inviolate, Kaz fills it with warm water, finds a clean washcloth, and gets to work, section by section. Hands and face first, then up his arms, and down his neck to his waist. And no further, this would already look bizarre enough if somebody walked in There’s an actual wet patch on the sheet to roll Ocelot off of, and Kaz grimaces, turning him onto his belly and swabbing at his back. Ocelot mostly just smells like a sick and feverish human, but under that is a smell like the taste of soot, and a strange note of bitter herbs.

“Mmmilllerrrr?” Ocelot mumbles into the pillow.

“Yeah,” Kaz says. “Good morning. I’m gonna tell everyone you hit your head really hard, and we can work something out from there to explain how fucked up you are.”

“Good plan,” Ocelot says, face still partially buried in the pillow. His injured side is up, of course, it can’t take the pressure. Kaz sighs, and sweeps Ocelot’s hair up to wipe the nape of his neck. Ocelot purrs, exactly like a cat but deeper and louder from the larger frame, a bizarre and inhuman sound that gives Kaz goosebumps. Kaz grumbles about what a weird fucker Ocelot is, slipping into Japanese both as a precaution and out of a certain kind of nostalgia for his mother’s nagging.

At least in the end Ocelot is cleaner and drier than he was. Kaz finds a clean towel and puts it over the Ocelot-shaped sweat stain, and rolls Ocelot back onto it. Even though he’s a monster (and Kaz doesn’t really mean the demon thing) it’s good to see him looking so much more comfortable. He mumbles his thanks in Russian, and Kaz can’t help a smile.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Once Ocelot is settled, with fresh water and more painkillers on the nightstand, Kaz turns his attention to damage control. He has to keep Ocelot’s affairs in order, release the right misinformation, keep all the little Intel gremlins from getting any more suspicious than ever, and then it’s finally time for breakfast. Since Ocelot is injured and it’s Kaz’s fault, Kaz of course is willing to get him whatever he wants. Because Ocelot is a goddamn demon, he wants raw steak salted with Kaz’s tears.

“Fucking seriously?” Kaz snaps, and Ocelot just shrugs, his expression obnoxiously mild.

“It will help me get my strength back more quickly,” he says, “but you don’t have to. The steak alone will do me good.”

“The tears will actually make it work better, though? If you’re just fucking with me, I will find out, Ocelot.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“If I get snot on it that’s your fault.”

“I have faith in you,” Ocelot says, with a gentle smile that Kaz sincerely wants to punch. But no, this is all his fault, and after his own breakfast, Kaz cuts the best steak he can find into neat, bite-sized pieces, like sashimi. He does his best to arrange it attractively. Kaz believes in presentation.


	4. Chapter 4

Kaz has cried several times in his adult life, but he tries to keep the number down, and sitting here staring at a plate of raw steak isn’t exactly conducive to sudden bursts of emotion. He wonders if tears of frustration will work, and then grits his teeth and thinks about his parents. If he keeps this up for long enough tears are pretty much guaranteed, which is why he tries to save it for special occasions.

There’s a kind of logic to self-induced misery, and Kaz realizes quickly that starting with the big things is ineffective. A father who blows his brains out because his second son isn’t enough is sad. A mother who ends her life not realizing that the man sitting beside her deathbed is her son is sad. Both of these things are too vast to cry over, though. They just settle into his belly like rocks, the way terrible truths always do. 

It’s the little things that make it happen. The way his mother would smile whenever she could give Kaz a second helping at meals, like it was its own reward. He can barely call up the image of her face anymore, but he has never forgotten her tiny hands scribbling away at the books for the shop in the evenings. He remembers when the watch on his wrist was new to him, its unfamiliar weight and the fragile joy in his father’s eyes, the same blue as his own.

Even though Kaz has been trying to cry for at least fifteen minutes now, it’s still a surprise when it happens, sudden stinging in his eyes and that miserable tightness in his chest and fuck Ocelot, anyway. He tries to stay quiet, but can’t help a few muffled sobs, head bowed over the plate as tears roll off the tip of his nose. He clenches his teeth and rides it out.

“Bon apetit,” Kaz croaks, when he feels like he can trust his voice again.

“Thank you,” Ocelot murmurs, and politely takes the plate with both hands. Kaz needs to clean himself up, but he’s still sniffling, so there’s no point in starting now. Besides, even at a time like this, even when it’s Ocelot, Kaz wants to make sure that the person he’s feeding enjoys their meal. Ocelot spears one garnet-red bite on his fork, and his eyes widen when he puts it into his mouth. Kaz can’t tell if it’s good surprise or bad until Ocelot is looking over at him.

“Miller,” he says softly, “this is _delicious_.”

“...You’re welcome.”

“I’m used to the highest grades of anguish, but this is incredible.”

Kaz stares at him for a long moment. “I’m genuinely glad you’re enjoying that,” he says in his most even tones, “and I hope it helps you get your strength back. Also, fuck you, I hate you so much.”

“I know,” Ocelot says, in a tone of genuine sympathy that just makes Kaz want to strangle him more. Instead, Kaz gets up and goes to the attached bathroom, where he takes his time about washing his face. He could borrow a comb from Ocelot, but it might curse his hair into some kind of hell-tendrils. As it is he uses his fingers to get things in some kind of order, and then walks back out to find that Ocelot has eaten every bite of steak and apparently also licked the plate clean. He’s curled up in the exact middle of the bed, nested in every scrap of bedding like the obnoxious cat that he is, and apparently fast asleep. Just as well.

Kaz takes the plate back to the kitchen and spends the rest of the day doing as much of Ocelot’s job as needs doing today (collecting intelligence reports for the bastard to read later, if you ask Kaz,) and his own fucking job, which is basically everything. 

He also checks in on Ocelot during his lunch break, and is very glad that he scarfed down his plate of curry rice at his own desk, because the sight that greets him in Ocelot’s quarters makes him shriek and fling the folders he’s carrying into the air, and the result would have been pretty spectacular with a full plate.

There’s a gaunt, grey thing hovering about two and a half feet over Ocelot’s sleeping form. It looks nothing like a cat, but something in its utter unconcern and the liquid way it turns its sinuous neck to look at Kaz is very feline. Kaz drops his gaze to the floor, sure that he shouldn’t see the thing’s face, with its twisted limbs and impossible smell of rain in a cemetery and those long, long, _long_ clawed, crooked fingers and the hideous hand-feet—wait.

“Papa,” Ocelot mumbles, sounding about one-quarter awake, “put your face on, you’re alarming Miller.”

There’s no sense of movement or change or anything, there’s just an unassuming man in glasses. He looks enough like Ocelot to make sense, and they have the same grey eyes, and he’s perfectly normal except for the tear of blood streaking down from his left eye. “My apologies,” he says, in a soft voice.

“I… uh… I’m sorry, sir, you just startled me,” Kaz says. Hardly his smoothest line, but sweet Christ strangling kittens in hell this is too much for him to deal with.

“He wanted to check in on me after my accident,” Ocelot says, and Kaz is more than willing to go with that.


	5. Chapter 5

Ocelot’s father says that his name is Sorrow, and he’s so gentle and affable that it just makes Kaz more and more nervous. He really hopes that Sorrow’s own invisible whiskers aren’t smelling Kaz’s real role in his son’s injury. To be fair, really hurting Ocelot was an accident, maybe that counts.

“You need to tell your friend that it will be spring again, son,” Sorrow says at last, turning back into his hideous true form. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Kaz can see Sorrow floating in the air again, leaning down to probably kiss Ocelot’s forehead. It’s hard to be sure, since the whiskers are one of the only definite features of his non-face. At least, as far as Kaz dares to look at it. He tucks away his questions about spring for later.

Sorrow vanishes, and suddenly all the real smells of the room are back, Ocelot and sickness and gun oil. Kaz wants to thank Ocelot for covering for him, but isn’t sure if that would be used against him or if Sorrow is still listening, so he just asks Ocelot what he wants for lunch. 

At least Kaz didn’t weep over a steak like a chump, since what Ocelot wants now are eggs so hard they bounce, and for Kaz to try and boil them with his hate as much as with the water.

“So, I’m just _furious_ at these eggs, then?”

“Ideally, but undirected rage will do.”

“Can I pretend the eggs are you?” Ocelot’s eyes light up, and Kaz has to laugh. “You sick fuck. Thanks for giving me an easy one.”

It is easy to rage at some eggs for a full fifteen minutes, and Ocelot is very appreciative to get a full dozen. He had said that ten would be all right, but Kaz has standards.

“So,” Kaz says, once Ocelot has gotten through five eggs, “two questions about your father.”

“Yes?”

“What did he mean about spring, and why don’t you just keep your whiskers invisible?”

“I’m not prepared to disclose that,” Ocelot drawls, in his most obnoxious Texas accent, “and it’s a hybrid thing,” he adds, reverting to his normal voice, which is just tinted with his most obnoxious Texas accent. “If both parents are the same species, you have greater control over your manifestations.” He pauses, and wobbles slightly. “Ugh. I think we’re going to have to go with that opportunistic malaria, Miller. This is… bad. The eggs are helping,” he adds, and Kaz grinds his teeth.

“Stop being so fucking nice about it,” he snaps, still a little enraged from boiling the eggs. Ocelot just chuckles in a warm, fond way that makes Kaz want to shoot him between the eyes. Probably wouldn’t even work on the fucking abomination.

“It’s my injury, I’m allowed to be as forgiving as I like. And you’re doing a good job taking care of me.” This last is said so sincerely that Kaz almost feels a feeling, and that just makes him angrier.

Ocelot falls asleep again after lunch, and for the next couple of days Kaz falls into a routine of damage control and feeding his injured demon. They absolutely do end up needing to use the story about opportunistic malaria, Ocelot is way too wobbly and pathetic for it to be anything else, when his initial head injury wasn’t supposed to be serious. When he tries to spin one of his revolvers and drops it, the look on his face goes right to Kaz’s heart. He has never seen anything less calculated from Ocelot in his life.

It’s probably the realization that his balance and reaction time is this off anyway that makes Ocelot suggest getting drunk, but Kaz is willing to go along. Even if this is going to be some kind of mopey Russian vodka drunk, not the fun, rum-based kind, or the cozy buzz of sake. Not only is it kind of the least he can do, but it’s been a while. He spends the day making sure enough failsafes are in place for him to take a night off while Ocelot is still down, and then picks up the vodka, skillfully acquired through Ocelot’s personal channels. It’s top of the line, and Kaz appreciates the quality even though the distinguishing feature of good vodka is tasting like nothing, which is why he doesn’t like it much.

It can be hard to find an appreciable amount of ice around here, but Kaz does his best, and sticks both bottles into a half-full bucket of the stuff. So what if it’s got fish scales in it, it’ll work. He hauls the bucket to Ocelot’s quarters, and walks in on him looking fondly at what appears to be a get-well card.

“...Did your various Intel creeps make you a card?”

“Everyone acts like we can’t have any friendly impulses,” Ocelot says, in a mournful way that might be as much as half genuine, “and they’re your operatives too.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kaz says, setting the bucket on the nightstand. “Shot glasses?”

“Cabinet,” Ocelot says, tucking the card away. It appears to be a drawing of an ocelot kitten with a bandage around its head and a thermometer in its mouth. Pretty cute, not that Kaz will ever admit that. He finds a few shot glasses in the cabinet, and selects I HAVE BLOOD IN MY ALCOHOL STREAM and a cartoon saguaro with a cowboy hat on one limb, bringing them back to Ocelot’s bedside. He sets the cactus glass in front of Ocelot, and pulls up a chair.

“Ready to get fucked up?”

“Already am,” Ocelot says, and pulls one bottle out of the ice. He pours for Kaz first, obnoxiously gracious, and then fills his own glass, raising it in a toast. “Cheers.”

Kaz clicks his glass to Ocelot’s and then knocks the vodka back. It may not have any character, but it sure is smooth.


	6. Chapter 6

“Y’know,” Kaz says, sprawled on Ocelot’s bed and gazing upward, “this ceiling is fuck-ugly.”

“Yes,” Ocelot slurs from beside him, “it is. Rrrrrepullssssivv,” he adds, in what Kaz is coming to think of as a demonic accent. “Is it yyeurrr ffaaaauulltt?”

“You have the luxury of asking, ingrate,” Kaz says, not actually that mad. The ceiling is fuck-ugly, but it’s structurally sound and that’s what really matters.

“You do take goood carre of usss,” Ocelot says, his tone very sincere and mostly human.

“You’re welcome, you fuckin’ demon,” Kaz mutters, and takes another swig of vodka. “I hate that vodka excels by tasting like nothing,” he adds, and Ocelot laughs.

“Papa likes it because it’s rrrestrainn’d,” Ocelot slurs. He was slurring before they started drinking, so it’s hard to tell where most of a fifth has left him.

“Can demons even get drunk?” Kaz asks.

“If we tttrrrryyy,” Ocelot says, and rolls toward Kaz, resting his head on Kaz’s shoulder, uninjured whiskers reaching toward his mouth.

“You’re not gonna drink my soul or anything, are you?” Kaz isn’t sure exactly how worried he is about that, but he can’t say it’s not a possibility.

“Mmnnnnno,” Ocelot informs him. “I caaan’t drrrrink your sssoul, I nnneeedd you.” He pauses, whiskers still undulating like underwater plants, and then adds, “Ssssnake nnneeeds you.” He’s getting that double-voiced effect again, and Kaz shivers a little at the strangeness.

“What did your father mean about spring?” Kaz asks, and Ocelot sighs.

“Huumaan sssouls smell in four seasons,” Ocelot says, and nuzzles into the side of Kaz’s neck in a way that’s kind of distracting, even if he is a creepy demon with a tentaclestache. “The sseason of a ssoul depends on a nnnumberr of factorss..”

“What season is mine?”

“Winter. Not surrrprrrising. We’rre waiting for Sssnake, like the worrld waits in winter.”

“...What does Snake’s soul smell like?” Kaz asks, his voice softer than he wants it to be. Even drunk, he can’t let himself think that maybe what Sorrow meant was that Snake is due to wake up soon. What even is soon to a demon, anyway?

“His winter is blood on sssnow,” Ocelot says, “purre and raw, iron and ozone. Yours is like rain over the sea, all misst and ssalt and rrrregrrret.”

“Are you just screwing with me?”

“Mmm, I could be,” Ocelot says, and wraps one bony handfoot around Kaz’s ankle in an intent, caressing little squeeze.

“Oh, poor me,” Kaz deadpans, “I am but a helpless little cat demon that you have so cruelly wounded, won’t you please come fuck it better?”

Ocelot lets go of him and rolls onto his side, his back to Kaz, sulking. “Well, you could,” he grumbles.

Kaz blinks, alcohol-sluggish brain lurching into action. “Wait, you want me to?”

“I enjoyed it last time,” Ocelot says, in the tone of a man pointing out that water is wet.

Kaz chuckles. “Guess you did.” He turns, and wraps around Ocelot from behind because what the hell, what’s one more bad idea? “Now that I know what you are,” Kaz murmurs into Ocelot’s ear, “all that yowling makes sense and won’t distract me.”

“It wonn’t?” Ocelot purrs, handfoot wrapping around Kaz’s ankle again, each long finger delicately folding into place with its long claw clicking against its fellows. Kaz shudders and isn’t even sure exactly why.

“Goddamn you’re so weird,” Kaz mutters, his face in Ocelot’s hair. Ocelot may be an asshole and an actual demon, but he has really soft hair and at this point in Kaz’s life, his constant faint smell of cordite is homey and comforting.

“Humannns are weirrrd,” Ocelot informs him.

“Yeah, with our smelly four-season souls. ...Do demons have souls?”

“Mmmnn, we haavve nnatures, and they do not chaange. Humans are a constant flux of good and evil.” His foot grips Kaz’s ankle again. “It’s deliciousss, the viiileness good mennn do.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to sleep with you again.”

“Sssleeeep with, indeed,” Ocelot purrs, and rolls onto his back, hands and handfeet holding onto Kaz, pulling all of his weight on top of Ocelot’s skinny frame. 

There really is something compelling about Ocelot’s slinky, feline quality, and Kaz sighs, pushing his sunglasses up so he can nuzzle into the side of Ocelot’s neck. His skin is very smooth, and he has the same cordite-and-bitter-chocolate smell he had the last time Kaz did this. At least now he knows that Ocelot is a literal demon, how fucking weird he smells, tastes, and feels makes a lot more sense. It’s not actually unpleasant, just strange as hell.

“Is your tongue fucked up?” Kaz murmurs, sliding his thumb along Ocelot’s lower lip, careful of his injured whiskers. “I felt like you wanted to blow me last time.”

“It is a perrrrfec’ly norrrmalll humaan-hybrrrid tongue,” Ocelot says primly, and then unreels the whole fucking thing. It extends at least five inches long and at first looks like a human tongue being held in a point. As Kaz watches, it peels apart into five sections.

“Why are you a fucking star-nosed mole?” Kaz asks him, and Ocelot laughs, stretching his tongue wide and grabbing Kaz’s finger with it. The slick, warm grip feels more like pussy than anything else, and Kaz can’t help a weird, choked noise of surprise. Ocelot’s grey eyes sparkle with amusement, and Kaz pushes his finger deeper in retaliation, pleased at the way Ocelot shudders. “Such a weird fucker,” Kaz says, more fondly than he really wants to. “I am sorry about your whiskers,” he adds, and kisses Ocelot’s cheek.

Ocelot just makes a weird trilling noise, refusing to let go of Kaz’s finger.


	7. Chapter 7

Kaz has gone dick-first into some pretty weird situations, but this is definitely the weirdest. He kneels over Ocelot’s face as Ocelot purrs in two voices, tongue still petaled open.

“So this is going to work?” Kaz asks, gripping the base of his cock, and Ocelot glares at him, tongue tentacles performing a remarkable impression of grabby hands. 

“Okay,” Kaz says, and guides himself into that pink opening. He can feel that it’s a wide stretch, could probably see it if he had a better angle and it probably says something about him that he _wants_ to see Ocelot’s weird alien tongue distend around his dick. He can’t help panting as he sinks slowly into that impossible hole, his free hand gripping the headboard for support.

This slick, taut warmth really does feel like wet pussy, if that experience came with the weird tentacles fondling his balls when they get close enough. That feels kind of like five slender tongues, but different in a way that’s really hard to qualify with Ocelot sort of double-sucking him, lips wrapped around the mass of his own tongue about halfway up Kaz’s length.

Kaz leans forward to get a better angle, moaning as the motion makes him slide deeper. Ocelot makes another weird trilling noise, and one tongue-tentacle slides further back, probing at Kaz’s hole. He shudders and sinks back, glad that he’s clean beyond a little boozy sweat. Ocelot purrs, and the tentacle wriggles into Kaz, making him flinch and squeak.

“Ffffuck,” Kaz breathes, shaking all over and pressing into both sensations as best he can. Ocelot purrs, in a genuinely inhuman way that doesn’t exactly surprise Kaz, under the circumstances.

The only thing letting Kaz last at all is the sheer weirdness of it all, and it’s not like anyone wants you to outlast their jaw, anyway. The last time Kaz was dumb enough to let something like this happen, coming had been pretty normal. He might have been slightly more tired than usual, but he tends to pass out after, to say nothing of how tired a person is after four rounds of fucking and uncounted lines of prime cocaine. This time he feels it, like something way more important than semen is leaving him. Whatever this is is probably killing him slowly, but Kaz tends to like that kind of thing. This time all he can do is convulse and let out some kind of long, broken howl, falling off of Ocelot to end up in the fetal position, twitching and greyed out for a solid twenty minutes.

“Fucking succubus,” he growls when he can speak again, his voice thick in his mouth.

“Perrrhapsss,” Ocelot concedes, and runs a totally-not-soothing handfoot up Kaz’s leg, nails gently digging into the skin of his hip and making him shudder. “I do nnneed to get my ssssstrength backkk.”

“Felt this last time,” Kaz mumbles into the sheet, “wrote it off as just bein’ tired.”

“I knoooww,” Ocelot says, in a kind of slow yowl, “I thhougghht it was cuutte.”

“Douchebag,” Kaz mutters, and Ocelot just laughs.

The worst part of all is that after a half-hour nap, some of that neon-colored electrolyte replacement drink R and D likes so much, and a bump of that dirty speed that Combat always has on hand, Kaz is ready for round two.

“Please tell me you don’t have teeth in your asshole,” Kaz mutters, gripping his cock in one hand and using the tip to smear lube over Ocelot’s hole. “Lie if you have to,” Kaz adds, and Ocelot just laughs in what sounds like three voices.

“I don’t have teeth in my asshole,” Ocelot says, in his most human voice.

“Thank you,” Kaz mutters, only about half sarcastic, and presses into Ocelot.

Kaz fingered Ocelot first, he has standards, but he probably didn’t really need to. Some people take a lot of work, but Ocelot just opens up for Kaz the way he did last time. The main difference is that he doesn’t even try to sound human. It’s like seven surprisingly happy cats in a sack, and Kaz really hopes that he doesn’t get trained into some truly weird shit.

At least Ocelot doesn’t have his goddamn boots on this time, so Kaz isn’t going to get spurred. And then those handsfeet are grabbing Kaz’s ass, squeezing tight and digging the claws in and of fucking course they are. Kaz can’t even bring himself to be that mad. Complaining about the spurs had really been more a matter of principle anyway, and now he can’t help letting out a pathetic whimper at Ocelot’s merciless grip. Ocelot murmurs something in a language Kaz doesn’t know and probably shouldn’t, and uses those wicked claws to control the rhythm until Kaz is sobbing into the crook of Ocelot’s neck, fucking him as hard as he can. He can’t help a squawk as some hopefully friendly tentacles slither around him inside Ocelot, something in there opening into what are probably five petals, just like his tongue.

“Ocelot...” he whines, uneasy but still close to coming, and Ocelot fucking pets him.

“Shhh,” Ocelot murmurs, “it’s all right.” he takes Kaz’s sunglasses off of the top of his head and sets them aside, since Kaz’s eyes are hidden in his shoulder anyway.

It isn’t much longer before Kaz howls and comes harder than he did last time. There’s even more of an energy drain, and he can’t even give Ocelot a hand in the aftermath. Ocelot doesn’t seem to mind, and just rolls Kaz onto his back and jacks off onto his chest. It looks more like mercury than semen, but Kaz has to assume that’s normal.

The weirdest part of all isn’t that Ocelot licks the cuts he left on Kaz’s ass, that’s really the least the bastard can do when they’re going to sting for days. No, the weird part is how genuine it feels when he gathers Kaz into his arms and kisses the top of his head, and how easy it is to fall asleep in the arms of a demon.


End file.
